Guardian
by jeanie2914
Summary: When a mysterious package arrives at the Burke house, Peter sets out on a mission to save a kid in trouble. But instead of one, he finds two. One shot, set pre-series.


_Trying to get back in the swing of things. __For those who haven't read my stories before, please know I generally write __hurt/comfort. That's what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is more thoughtful. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you._

_As stated numerous times, I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

_**guardian** [ gahr-dee-uhn ] noun. a person who guards, protects, or preserves._

"Do you _know_ this man?" Agent Hughes frowned at the note in his hand. "Or any of his family?"

"No, sir," Peter admitted with a shake of his head. "Never heard of him before this."

Peter waited as Hughes shuffled through the remaining papers. Finally, he looked up, his usual irritation mixing with a look of confusion.

"Then why would someone send this to _you_?"

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It was a question Peter had been asking himself since the previous afternoon.

He'd just gotten in the door, taken off his coat, flopped down on the chair and picked up the remote when Elizabeth met him with a package.

"What is it?" It had been a frustrating day, a frustrating week, and his tone betrayed it.

"I have no idea," she answered, holding out a large brown envelop. "It was delivered this afternoon. To _Agent_ Burke," she added pointedly, "Not _Peter_ Burke."

Peter raised his eyebrows. Bureau business went to the office, not his home.

"Delivered?" he repeated with a frown, leaning forward to take it.

"Yes, just a couple of hours ago." Peter could hear the curiosity in her voice. "Young man on a bicycle. Messenger Service, he said."

The name and address were written in small, neat print. There was no return address given, no postage or postmark to say where it had originated.

Peter slipped his finger under the fold and tore it loose. When he pulled the contents from the envelope, something small dropped onto his lap. He picked it up.

A Drivers License for one Mark Parker, 8666 East San Pablo Ave. Brooklyn, still valid.

Curiosity piqued, he turned the small sheath of papers in his hand to read them. The first page was a note, written in the same small print as the address had been. His frown deepened as he scanned the page.

"What is it, Peter?" El asked, her curiosity transforming into concern.

"I'm not sure." He mumbled, flipping through the remaining pages. "Looks like alleged child abuse."

"_Child abuse?" _He could hear the surprise in her voice.

"Yeah," he replied grimly, handing her the first page. "See for yourself."

As El read the note, Peter perused the pages that had accompanied it. There was a Brooklyn Urgent Care intake form dated six weeks ago. The patient was Matthew Parker, age nine. _Bruises and lacerations on the left cheek_. _Mild Concussion._ According to the father, his son had fallen from a tree in the backyard. The next one was from James Madison Memorial. Peter's jaw tightened as he read; _Bruised ribs_. _Broken Arm_. _Evidence of older bruising on his back, neck and arms. _This time, according to the father, Matthew had been injured in a _bicycle_ accident. This form was dated five _days_ ago.

"Oh, Peter," El breathed as she finished. "Do you believe this is true?" she held out the note, a stricken look on her face. "That this...police officer is hurting his son?"

"I don't know," he answered tersely, "It's easy to accuse someone of something." He flipped past the medical forms to see what else had been included. "It's a lot harder to prove it."

There were copies of reports issued from two different IA investigations into Officer Parker's conduct. Both had been launched when suspects in his custody had sustained serious injuries. One incident occurred two years ago and the other just this spring. There had been no witnesses; in both cases, it had come down to one person's word against another. Without anyone to substantiate the suspects' claims, IA had ruled in Parker's favor. No action had taken place.

"Is that what they've sent you, then?" Elizabeth asked hopefully, moving to the side of the chair and peering over his shoulder. "Proof?"

"No," he admitted, frowning at the papers in his hand. "But they've sent enough to raise the question."

Medical records and confidential IA reports. Who would have access to something like that? A fellow officer?

And why, instead of calling Child Protective Services and making a report, had they sent them to him?

It made no sense. He took the note from Elizabeth and read through it again.

__Mark Parker works out of the 54th Precinct. He's been investigated for excessive force but there's never been any disciplinary action against him. He also abuses his son. He's convinced the boy no one will believe him and that no one can help him. PROVE HIM WRONG. __

It was a short note but a big request.

"Why did they send this to you, Peter?" Elizabeth echoed one of the two questions he kept asking himself.

"I don't know, El," he answered truthfully.

She sank down on the arm of the chair. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Pass it on to Special Victims or Child Protective Services," he answered, placing the items back into the envelope with a sigh. "Outside of that, there's nothing I_ can_ do about it."

"Someone out there must think differently, Peter, or they wouldn't have sent it to you."

Anyone who knew him knew he investigated White Collar Crimes, not Child Abuse, but the delivery did suggest a level of familiarity. And now that Elizabeth knew about Matthew Parker, it wouldn't be as easy as handing it off and walking away.

"What do you _want_ me to do, El?"

Elizabeth placed her hand on his shoulder. "Just what the note asked you to do," she said simply. "_Prove him wrong."_

Just as he'd expected, Elizabeth wasn't going to let him off the hook. "I'll do what I can, El, I promise."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCW

It was that promise that had brought him into Agent Hughes office at the end of a less than productive week. The man sat behind his desk, still waiting for an answer.

_Why would someone send this to you?_

"I don't know sir," he replied. "I guess they hoped I might be able to help." It was all he had.

Hughes again directed his attention to the documents in his hand, his frown deepening. Despite his boss's tough exterior, Peter knew the information he was seeing disturbed him. As well it should. Neither he nor Elizabeth had slept well the night before.

After a moment, Hughes took a deep breath and extended the documents back across the desk.

"And you will help," he confirmed with a firm nod of his head. "By making sure it gets to the right people. There are procedures, Agent Burke, and clearly the person who sent this to you didn't understand that."

It was the response Peter had expected; this was not an FBI matter by any stretch of the imagination. But, as his grandfather used to say, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Plus, he'd promised Elizabeth.

"Of course, sir," he agreed, taking the documents from his boss, "but I'd like to check into the matter before I pass it along."

"This is not our problem, Agent Burke."

"It did come to my front door," Peter pointed out, "so, in a way, it _is_ my problem."

Agent Hughes studied him a moment before shaking his head. "Just because it came to your home, you can't make this personal." Hughes leaned back in his large desk chair, fixing Peter with a direct gaze. "How goes the search for the Bond Forger?"

Peter internally winced at the inquiry, knowing where is boss was going with the question. Agent Hughes believed his pursuit of Neal Caffrey was more personal than professional and had warned him of the dangers of becoming emotionally involved in a case. And he wasn't wrong, but fortunately, forgery _was_ their problem so he'd been allowed to continue his crusade against Neal Caffrey.

"Stalled out, for the most part, sir," he admitted reluctantly. "I have reason to believe he's in France. The trail here's been cold for over three months."

Ever since Caffrey left the country-as a birthday gift to _him_, or so he'd said in the card he'd sent. Was his pursuit of Caffrey personal? You better believe it.

Agent Hughes nodded thoughtfully before leaning forward, resting his forearm on his desk. "I've allowed you leeway in that matter, but _this_," his eyes dropped to the papers in Peter's hand. "This is different, Peter." His tone was regretful. "You can't investigate it; it's not our jurisdiction."

_No matter how much we wish we could,_ his tone suggested.

Sensing some room to maneuver, Peter continued; reframing his request.

"I'm not suggesting we investigate per se," he offered as clarification. "I just think we should, you know, _verify_ these documents."

Hughes raised an eyebrow. "Verify them?"

"Yes, sir," Peter replied. "To make sure they haven't been fabricated or altered in any way."

Peter saw a hint of amusement in the older man's eyes. "Creating fraudulent documents_ is_ a serious offense."

"Yes, it is, sir," Peter agreed, feeling his argument taking traction. "And I believe we would be remiss in our duty if we passed on documents without checking their authenticity."

"Well," Agent Hughes chuckled, "we certainly don't want to be accused of being _remiss_. Check it out," he directed. "Validate the documents, then pass them along to the proper authority. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It was just after five on Friday afternoon when Peter and Anna Thompson knocked on the door on East San Pablo Avenue in Brooklyn. It had been just over a week since the brown package had arrived at the Burke house. Mark Parker wasn't the only one with connections; Peter had a few of his own and he'd used every one of them to uncover the truth. Anna Thompson with Child Protective Services had been the face of the investigation; Peter had just provided tactical support. His presence wasn't necessary, two officers were at the curb in case of an altercation, but Peter had wanted to be there.

After a moment, the door opened just a few inches and the young face of Matthew Parker peered through.

"May I help you?" The polite, timid tone matched the boy's expression perfectly.

"Actually, Matthew," Peter replied, dropping his voice conspiratorially, "We're here to help _you_."

The young man's eye widened but before he could respond, a gruff voice bellowed from inside the house. "Who is it, boy?" A moment later a hand grasped the door frame and jerked it open. "If its more of those bible-tract peddlers-"

The tirade stopped at the sight of them. Two days into his four days off, Parker's eyes were bleary and stubble shadowed his sharp chin.

"Who are you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. His breath reeked of bourbon. "What do you want?"

Peter flashed his badge. "Agent Burke, FBI and this is Anna Thomspon from Child Protective Services."

There was a flash of alarm in the man's eyes but it quickly vanished. "Get inside, Matt," he growled.

Already pale, all remaining color drained from the boys face.

"Matthew will be coming with us, Mr. Parker," Peter announced firmly, halting the boy's movement to comply. He produced the order from his jacket pocket and handed it to the irate man. "Why don't you go grab a few things?" he directed the frightened boy. "Pajamas, a change of clothes. A favorite book or blanket." Wide-eyed, the boy looked at his father then back at Peter and Anna. "It's okay, Matthew," Anna assured him kindly. "Go on. And be quick."

With another glance at his father, the boy turned and vanished into the house.

"What is this?" Parker asked, reading the document he'd been given. "Emergency _Removal_? He raised his eyes, his tone one of disbelief. "You can't just come here and take my son. I have _rights_."

"So does your son, Mr. Parker," Anna's voice was sharp. "We are taking him into protective custody until we complete our investigation."

"What investigation?" Parker bellowed. "Who've you've been listening to?" He looked angrily from one to the other. "Tell me who started these lies!"

"Please, Mr. Parker," Anna replied, her voice remarkably calm in the face of the man's red-faced anger. "Don't make this more difficult for Matthew than it has to be. You can call the office on Monday," she continued, nodding at the forms in his hand. "The number is there, along with your case number. They will give you the date and time of the initial hearing."

Matthew had packed quickly. He'd returned, a backpack slung over his shoulder and, without a word, slipped through the door. His eagerness to escape was not lost on his father.

Parker glared at his son, then took in the officers at the edge of the yard, the order crumpling in his clenched hand. "I guess I don't have a choice right now but _trust me_," he spoke between gritted teeth, his eyes dark with rage. "No one is taking my son from me." His eyes narrowed on Matthew. "Mind your manners, Matt," his tone carried a clear warning, "because no matter what they tell you, you'll be back here before you know it."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Forty-five minutes later, Peter pulled into his driveway and a moment later, Anna and Matthew pulled in behind him.

Matthew's Aunt Joyce, an elementary teacher in Portland, was arriving Monday but until then, he needed a place to stay. The usual procedure would be to place him in a group home, but Elizabeth insisted he come to the Burke house instead. Peter hadn't objected; the boy had been through enough. His mother had died three years ago in a car accident. After her death, Parker had cut all ties with her family, isolating the boy completely. According to Joyce Kempner, Parker had also abused her sister, but she had been too afraid to leave him. Armed with that information, it hadn't taken long to uncover a series of emergency room and urgent care visits for Ellen Parker. With staff trained to recognize signs of domestic violence, there were several notations in the records. Time and time again, Mrs. Parker denied she was being abused; she'd tripped or fell or ran into a cabinet door. Anything to explain away the injuries. It was only after her death that the incidents began for young Matthew. With his wife gone, Parker had directed his violent outbursts at the only person left, his son. Matthew's first ER visit had been at age six; there had been many more since.

Anna walked with them to the house, gave Elizabeth a list of emergency contact numbers, and with a promise to be in touch at the first of the week, was gone. Matthew stood silently, taking in his new surroundings. He was just a boy but Peter knew he'd seen much violence in his life. It made his demeanor solemn, his eyes too wise for his years. Peter hoped that there was still time in Matthew's childhood to restore the innocence and wonder every child deserved.

They would do what they could to get him off to a good start. El had the guest room ready and he could smell something delicious coming from the kitchen. Elizabeth's solution to any type of trauma or heartache was food. Good food and lots of it.

Once Matthew had settled a bit, they'd eat dinner and let Satchmo in. Nothing dispelled loneliness more than a good dog.

Did his Aunt Joyce have a dog? Peter wondered. Would she let Matthew have one? He'd have to find out.

"Let me take that," he offered, lifting the backpack from the boy's shoulder. It wasn't heavy and Matthew surrendered it without protest.

A moment later, Peter found himself the subject of Matthew's curious gaze. "Is your name _Peter_?"

"Yes, it is," Peter confirmed, a small smile on his lips. It stood to reason Mrs. Thompson would have told him about the couple he'd be staying with. He glanced at Elizabeth. "And this is my wife, Elizabeth."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Matthew," Elizabeth offered. "I'm glad you're here." She looked at Peter. "We both are."

Matthew gave Elizabeth a polite nod but quickly returned his attention to Peter.

"He said you'd help me but I didn't believe him."

Peter raised a brow at boy's solemn proclamation. "Who said I'd help you?"

"The man at the hospital."

Peter met Elizabeth's eyes, expectantly. This had to be the person who'd sent him the package. "What man?"

"The man who said you were a special police officer, a _Federal_ one, and that my dad wouldn't scare you one bit."

That was flattering. Maybe the man knew him after all.

"Did you know him, Matthew?" In spite of his eagerness, Peter managed to keep his tone relaxed. This wasn't a suspect; it was a boy. "Had you seen him before?" Matthew shook his head to both inquiries. "Did he work at the hospital?" Peter continued. "Was he a doctor? Or a nurse?"

"No," Matthew replied. "He was hurt. They had to put stitches in his head."

It had been a patient, then.

"So the two of you...talked a bit, huh?"

"Yeah, after my dad left. I didn't know he was there until he opened the curtain."

If the boy hadn't known the man was there, it was likely his father hadn't either.

"What did he say, Matthew?"

"He asked my name," the boy began, "and how old I was."

"Anything else?" Peter prompted.

"Where I went to school, what color cast I wanted to get." The boy paused, eyes flitting quickly to Elizabeth. "And where my _mom_ was."

"I see." The man must be involved with law enforcement at some level. He'd used standard interview techniques to connect with Matthew, to draw him out. "What else did you talk about?"

The boy didn't immediately answer, but when he did, his voice was barely a whisper. "He said he heard my dad tell me to say I wrecked my bike."

Given the thinly veiled threat Parker had made to his son in front of FBI and Child Services, Peter could only imagine how he spoke to him in private. The man had probably assessed the boy's situation quickly.

"And he knew that wasn't the truth, didn't he?"

The boy nodded, his blue eyes filling with tears. Peter felt a surge of protectiveness and guessed the stranger at the hospital had had a similar reaction.

"He said what my dad was doing was wrong and that I should find a police officer and tell them."

It would have been a logical suggestion, but Peter understood why the boy would have balked at it.

He asked, anyway. "What did you tell him?"

"That I couldn't go to a police officer, my dad _is_ one, and none of them would _believe_ me." Tears overflowed and trailed down his cheeks. "He hurts people all the time and," his voice rose in desperation; he swiped away his tears angrily. "_no one cares."_

Elizabeth gave her head a quick shake, her expression telling him to let it go. She stepped up to put a protective arm across Matthew's shoulders.

"It's alright, sweetie," she assured him gently. "Things are going to get better, now, you'll see."

Matthew didn't answer but swallowed hard and nodded his head.

"I'll show you your room," Elizabeth continued, "then you can wash up for dinner. Are you hungry?"

The boy wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "A little."

"Good," she smiled. "I've made spaghetti with _lots_ of meatballs." She guided him towards the guest room. "Do you like to be called Matthew or do you prefer Matt?"

"Mom called me Matthew."

"Then Matthew it is."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"Am I going to live with Aunt Joyce?" The question came abruptly.

In spite of he and Elizabeth's efforts to draw Matthew into their dinner table discussions, he had said very little.

He was nine and in the fourth grade. His favorite subject was math. He liked playing dodge ball in PE.

He'd dutifully answered direct questions but hadn't elaborated nor had he posed any questions of his own.

Until now.

Having broken his silence, the boy regarded Peter solemnly.

"I don't know," Peter hedged, unable to determine whether Matthew was in favor of the idea or not. "That's something you, Mrs. Thompson, and your aunt will have to discuss."

His question answered, Matthew again directed his attention to his plate.

"Mrs. Thompson said your aunt sounded nice," Peter ventured after several moments of silence. "She's a teacher." He looked at Elizabeth, hoping for assistance. "Second grade, I believe." Matthew poked at a meatball with his fork.

"I'm sure she's wonderful." Elizabeth seized the flag of conversation and carried it forward. "Are you excited to see her, Matthew?"

He gave his small shoulder a shrug. "I guess so. She lives far away from here, doesn't she?" Matthew added after a moment, looking up from his plate.

"Yes she does," Peter replied. "All the way on the other side of the country. In Oregon."

"Does my dad know where she lives?" Even thousands of miles didn't make the boy feel safe.

Peter knew finding a law-abiding citizen was often as simple as typing in a name and city and that if Parker wanted to find his sister in law, it wouldn't be difficult to do so. But Matthew didn't need to know that.

"I doubt it," Peter answered. "Have you ever visited her?"

Matthew shook his head. "My dad don't like her."

"Then I'm sure he doesn't."

With nothing more to say, Matthew dropped his eyes to his spaghetti and silence again settled around the table.

Peter sighed; this had gone on long enough. "Hey," he scooted his chair out and got to his feet. "If you're finished, I have a surprise for you."

Vague interest appeared on the boy's face. Peter stepped into the kitchen and opened the back door. Satchmo bounded in, quickly finding their young guest, his tail wagging wildly.

"Satchmo," Peter announced, "this is Matthew, Matthew, this is Satchmo."

Matthew looked uncertain but tentatively reached out and rubbed Satchmo's head. Satchmo, loving the attention, responded by leaning closer. A moment later, a small smile stole across Matthew's face. It was the first one Peter had seen since he'd met the boy.

As Elizabeth cleaned up from dinner, Peter joined Matthew in a limited game of fetch with Satchmo.

Peter had let it rest through dinner, but with Matthew more relaxed, he broached the topic of the mystery man once again. He knew in the scheme of things it didn't matter who'd sent him the package, but something about it kept stirring around in his head. It was like a puzzle missing one, vital piece.

"Matthew, did the man at the hospital say he _knew_ me?"

"Yeah," Matthew replied, tossing the chew toy down the hallway. Excited by the suspension of the rule against playing fetch in the house, Satch bounded after it. "He said he had a friend named Peter who could help me."

But a friend would have called him, not sent a note via messenger. An acquaintance then, one who, for whatever reason, wanted to remain anonymous.

"I'm trying to think of who it could have been." Satchmo returned with the toy, and this time, Peter retrieved it and flung it down the hall. "Maybe if you describe him, I'll be able to place him."

"Well, he was tall," Matthew began as Satchmo snatched up the toy and started back. "He had dark hair."

Not the most helpful description. "Did he have a mustache or beard?" Peter prompted. Matthew shook his head. "Was he younger than me or older?"

Matthew glanced at him. "Younger."

With each toss, Peter posed a question, trying to generate a mental image of the man.

"Bigger than me or smaller?" Satchmo was running out of steam.

"Smaller, I think."

"What was he wearing?" Peter continued. "Jeans and tee-shirt, sweatshirt-"

"He was dressed nice," Matthew cut in. "Like a banker on tv. He had a white shirt and a blue tie. And blue eyes," he added. "like mine."

The image that suddenly formed in Peter's mind caused him to stop mid toss. A young man with laughing blue eyes handing him a lollipop outside a bank. But it couldn't' be; Caffrey was in France.

Matthew looked up at his sudden stillness. "Did that help?" he asked. "Do you know him now?"

Another image flashed in his memory; the birthday card he'd received three months earlier, the message inside penned in small, precise print.

_Just like the note._

"I'm not sure," Peter quickly got to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. He handed the toy to Matthew. "I'll be right back."

He bounded up the stairs, into his bedroom and opened the top drawer of the bureau. Inside, he opened the small box he kept there and took out a card with a rendition of a Monet on the cover. It, too, had been sent to his house but not my messenger; it had arrived by mail.

He flipped it opened.

_Happy Birthday, Peter! I took a trip out of your jurisdiction so you could spend time with Elizabeth on your birthday. Take her to Mario's over on Beckman Street. She loves that place._

No return address had been given, but it had been postmarked in Pantin, France, a trendy suburb of Paris and the sender had signed it with a flourish.

_Neal Caffrey._

The print was the same; Matthew's description fit. There was only one way to be sure.

He returned the card and took out a copy of the BOLO he'd created for Caffrey almost a year ago. The image had been taken from security footage so it wasn't the best quality but it would do. He replaced the box's top and closed the drawer. Folding back the description and pertinent information to leave only Caffrey's image, he headed back downstairs.

The game of fetch had ended. Matthew was sitting on the floor, leaning against the recliner, and Satchmo was stretched out beside him.

"Matthew," Peter said, squatting down beside the boy. "Is this the man you met at the hospital?"

He held his breath as Matthew studied the folded paper.

"Yes," he confirmed with a nod. "That's him." He looked up. "So you _do_ know him, don't you?"

"Yeah," Peter said, his mind reeling. "I guess I do."

Caffrey was back in the States; he'd been at James Madison Memorial _two weeks_ ago. The trail that had been cold was now red hot. With Matthew's identification, he'd be able to pull security footage and maybe even get a look at the intake form. Had Caffrey used an alias? He'd systematically been burning them, one by one, over the past year. Each time, he reduced Caffrey's resources and closed the net a little tighter. It was just a matter of time until Caffrey's luck ran out. And maybe that time was now. It was Friday evening; he couldn't wait until Monday. Should he call Hughes, get him to wake a judge?

"Are you going to see him any time soon?" Matthew's question snapped him back to the present.

"I sure hope so," he replied, getting to his feet. He looked down at Matthew. "Why?"

"Because I want to thank him," the boy answered. "He made me a promise and he _kept_ it. No one's ever done that before."

The only person who'd ever kept their word to Matthew was a conman who lied for a living. The irony wasn't lost on Peter.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"Burke," Peter said tersely into the phone.

"Hey, Peter."

His head shot up from the Medical Form he'd been reading. "_Caffrey." _

After the initial shock wore off, he switched to speakerphone, hit the message icon and alerted Jones to the call. "Calling to turn yourself in?"

"And ruin all the fun?" Caffrey snorted. "Of course not."

"So why are you calling?" Peter asked, silently reading the message from Jones. _Keep him talking. "_Slow night in Paris?"

"You know I'm not in France, Peter. You pulled the security footage from JMH Emergency Department this morning."

Only because he'd not been able to get a judge to sign the order any sooner. "No point in asking how you know that is there?"

"Nope," he said good-naturedly, "can't be giving away trade secrets."

Caffrey obviously had his ways. He'd also gained access to confidential medical records from two facilities and breached the security of the NYPD's IA Department. Both of those were chargeable offenses and then, to top it off, he'd sent evidence of his crimes straight to the FBI. Caffrey could have sent the information to any number of agencies, any number of officers, and likely gone unidentified. But he'd sent it to _him, _which brought him to the _real_ question on his mind.

"Why did you do it?"

Caffrey chuckled. "You're going to have to be a little more specific than that, Peter."

"Why did you sent the stuff on Parker to me?" Peter complied, adding clarification. "You had to know I'd track it back to you."

He'd wondered why before he knew who but now that he knew _who,_ the _why_ was even more compelling.

There was a moment of silence before Caffrey answered. "Because I knew you'd make sure Matthew was safe."

Basically, what he'd said to Matthew. "So would someone from Child Protective Services or the NYPD Special Victims Unit," Peter pointed out. "That's what they _do_."

Again, there was a pause. "Maybe, but I had to be sure. And I don't _know_ them."

"You don't know me, either, Caffrey," Peter said gruffly, annoyed the continued air of familiarity.

Caffrey might know his address, his birthday and where Elizabeth liked to eat but he didn't know _him._ He'd gotten that information from research, not from some personal knowledge. And in spite of what he'd told Matthew, they weren't friends; they were _adversaries_. He'd spent the last year pursuing Caffrey, eliminating his resources and keeping him on the move. It was the continued pressure, he was sure, that had sent Caffrey across the Atlantic three months ago. Not his _birthday._

"I know _enough_," Caffrey replied with equal fervor. "Matthew needed someone to restore his faith in law enforcement and you're the only person I'd trust to do that."

There were so many things wrong with that statement. Peter started with the most obvious.

"Faith in law enforcement?" he repeated in disbelief. "That seems a bit hypocritical coming from a felon."

"_Alleged_ felon," Caffrey snapped irritably. "And just because I don't subscribe doesn't mean I don't know the importance of believing there are good guys out there, fighting for what's right." Peter was surprised by his passion. "Especially when you're a kid in trouble."

_A kid in trouble. _

Suddenly, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Peter understood why Caffrey's behavior, his reasoning, seemed so far off. He wasn't operating on intellect, in his usual pragmatic way, he was acting on emotion; this was _personal._ Something about Matthew's plight had resonated so strongly with him that he'd acted impulsively, with no thought to the consequences. Had he been a kid in trouble? Had he needed to believe there were good guys out there, fighting for what was right? Had he, like Matthew, been in an abusive environment with no one to turn to?

It was possible. He knew nothing about Caffrey's background. As far as he could find, he didn't even exist three years ago. Before that, there was no record of a Neal Caffrey anywhere in the system, _any_ system. He'd never been listed on a Federal census, was in no school database, public or private. There had never been a driver's license or vehicle registration in his name. There were no criminal records, juvenile or otherwise. Nothing.

How old was he anyway? Nineteen? Twenty? He was hardly more than a kid now. He glanced at the page on his desk — seven stitches in his head, a cracked rib, and a bruised kidney. Maybe Matthew wasn't the only one who needed a way out of a bad situation.

"Listen," the new perspective softened his tone. "You've made mistakes, Caffrey, but you're young and you don't have a record. I can help you if-"

Caffrey cut him off before he could finish. "_Help me_?" The words dripped with sarcasm. "Who's being hypocritical now?"

"I'm being _serious_," Peter shot back, surprised by his sudden desire to rescue another kid in trouble. "I know somebody roughed you up; I got the report right here. It's just a matter of time until-"

"I didn't call for an intervention," Caffrey interrupted again, his words clipped with impatience. "I called to thank you for taking care of Matthew; that's it. Now that I have, I gotta go; I know your tracing this call."

"Wait!" Peter said, delaying not for tracing purposes but to deliver a message. "Matthew wanted me to tell you he said thank you."

_"_You're the one who helped him," Caffrey deferred. "I just got information into the right hands." Neal Caffrey was a lot of things but, until now, _modest_ would have never made Peter's list of descriptive terms. "_Yours,_" he added after a slight pause.

The inflection implied curiosity, as if he, too, didn't fully understand why he'd chosen the agent chasing him to be the champion in his cause. He'd acted on impulse, without thinking, and when Peter asked him why it had come down to one, consistent yet troubling thing;_ trust. _When he had to be sure, when emotion trumped reason, Caffrey trusted him to do the right thing. He saw him as a good guy, fighting for what was right.

But in this instance, Neal Caffrey had also been a good guy, fighting for what was right. He'd seen Matthew's situation and he'd found a way to help him. But that wasn't why Matthew had wanted to thank him. It was for something else.

"You did more than that," Peter pointed out. "You made him a promise, Neal, and you _kept_ it."_ Damn._ He'd said _Neal_. "In his world, that's a big deal," he continued. "A game-changer."

"Well, technically, that was _Gary_." Gary Rydell was the name on the medical form Peter had on his desk. "I guess he's retiring now," Neal remarked. "And relocating to..." there was a pause, "_Singapore_."

"Too bad," Peter replied. "I'd really like a face to face with Mr. Rydell. I could help him, too," he ventured. "If he'd let me."

There was silence and just for a moment, he thought Neal was considering it.

"Nice of you to offer, Peter, but its too late for that." He sounded almost wistful. "He's not nine anymore."

Struck by the sadness of the statement, Peter wanted to protest, to say it was _never_ too late, but it _was_; the call had ended.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"So Caffrey called you." Agent Hughes said, stepping into the office. For some reason, it sounded more like an accusation than a statement. Peter guessed by now everyone in White Collar knew about his phone conversation with the elusive Neal Caffrey.

"Yeah, he did," Peter admitted. "Unfortunately we weren't able to get a location."

Even though he'd kept Neal talking for almost two minutes, the trace had been unsuccessful. The call had been routed through four continent and five cities before it had dropped in, of course, _Singapore_. Neal, too, had been timing the call and knew exactly where Gary Rydell would be retiring_. _

"At least we know he's back in New York and you have another alias," Hughes announced. "That's progress."

They had a lot more than that. In the recent interaction, he'd learned some unexpected things about Neal Caffrey. Some made him realize there was more to the man than his just crimes, some puzzled and confused him, and some enlightened him. The chief of the latter was that, when Neal's emotions were involved, he was careless, reckless even. He made mistakes.

"Yes, it is, sir," Peter agreed. "Plus, I've learned some things about Neal-" Hughes' brow raised slightly at the slip. "about_ Caffrey_," he corrected quickly, "that might help me catch him."

"Such as?" Peter knew Hughes would like nothing better than to close the file on Neal Caffrey once and for all.

"I've been focusing on his crimes," Peter explained, "trying to find a mistake or misstep but he's too smart for that. He's meticulous, pragmatic. He doesn't make mistakes. _Until now." _He balked at calling Neal's good deed a mistake. "Matthew Parker's situation shook him up so much that he sent me that information on Officer Parker. If he hadn't, I'd still think he was somewhere in Europe."

"What do I keep telling you, Agent Burke?" Hughes sighed heavily. "When people get emotionally invested, they make mistakes. Even the great Neal Caffrey."

"Exactly," Peter agreed. "That's why I need to know about _Neal Caffrey_, not just his crimes," he continued, outlining his new tactic. "I need to know what he cares about,_ who_ he cares about; that's the chink in his armor." It left a bad taste in his mouth but Neal was a criminal and it was his job to catch him. By any means necessary. "When I find that, I'll know how to get him."

It did seem unfair that, by revealing his Achilles heel, Neal's selfless act would be his undoing. Peter mitigated his guilt by reminding himself the man was living a dangerous life. The injuries recorded on the intake form at James Madison were serious. It was just a matter of time until Neal got himself into a situation he couldn't wiggle his way out of. Plus, he'd meant what he'd tried to tell him earlier; he was young and his crimes nonviolent. He'd get eighteen months, two years at the most, and then get a reset on his life.

Prison would be temporary; death was not.

"So how do you find out about a person when you don't know who they are?" Hughes posed. "How many aliases are you up to so far, four, five?"

"Gary Rydell is the fifth," Peter admitted. "I'll just take it bit by bit," he explained. "Research each alias I uncover and learn what I can about the man portraying it. Take, for instance, Gary Rydell," He handed Hughes several pages. "Works here and down in Philadelphia. He's known as a fence for high-end art, for the most part, but there is one case where he was suspected of art theft."

In_ Ontario_?" Hughes sounded surprised. Peter had been too; he hadn't known Neal had even been in Canada. "The kid sure gets around, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does," Peter replied. "According to the report, he gave the Royal Canadian Mounted Police quite a fit."

Hughes continued to scan through the pages and after a moment, raised his eyes.

"So," he began, "what we learn about Caffrey from Gary Rydell is that, in addition to being a forger, hacker, con artist, and thief, he's also a skilled _equestrian_."

Peter couldn't help but smile. The account of Neal Caffrey, AKA Gary Rydell, escaping on horseback down a packed Ottowa street _was_ entertaining to read.

"Yes, sir, apparently he is."

It was just another surprising fact about Neal Caffrey to add to the ever-growing list.

"Okay, Agent Burke," Hughes said, signaling the end of the conversation. "Keep me apprised of your progress."

"I will sir," he promised.

"And remember what I said about getting personally involved in a case," Hughes handed back the reports. "Be sure any mistakes that are made are made by Caffrey. Not _you_. Understand?"

If his boss thought he was personally involved before, there was no doubt about it now. But there had been a subtle shift in his perspective. Neal Caffrey wasn't just a cocky, taunting criminal to him anymore; he'd become a real person, capable of compassion and sacrifice. And of regret and longing.

_It's too late. He's not nine anymore._

Neal, like Matthew, had needed rescued but no one had come.

But it was never too late.

Hughes was looking at him, waiting for his answer.

"Absolutely."

_The End _


End file.
